A/N: This is an idea that came to me while watching the Dark Knight recently. It is in Harvey Dent's POV at the very end of the film with one difference-he survives but barely. Originally one-shot, but if you guys think it should continue, let me know!
Cold. That was the first thing that came to Dent's mind. How cold the ground felt. Lying on the ground almost unable to move, there wasn't much to think about. He felt vulnreble lying here, but something seemed to keep him from moving. He tried to remember why he was in this position in the first place,but his mind came up blank. In vain, he tried turning his head to see if there was anybody else there that could help him up. The effort from doing this proved too much. He felt weak and numb, but most of all, the cold bothered him.
He was in immense pain for about the fiftieth time that day, it felt like. His senses must be temporarily shutting down from too much negative stimulation, he figured. Going into shock. He didn't recall having any medical experience, but then again, he was having a hard time remembering anything besides his own name. Which brought up the question, how was he aware of pain felt earlier that day?
His back hurt like hell-falling several stories does , how did he know that? He assumed it because he was in fact at the bottom of what appeared to be adirelect warehouse. He figured that the most likely reason he was there was because he fell. this was reinforced when something else sounded as if it was falling, as evidenced by a loud crashing sound and several voices shouting.
The left side of his face was numb. He didn't spend too much time thinking about it, but he figured it was likely having to do with the fact that his nerve endings had been severed and subsequently cauterized in the explosion. The pain was making him dip in and out of consciousness. He also couldn't remember much else, just that an explosion somehow destroyed his face. Despite all this, all he could think about is how cold it all felt. He heard several voices. At first he didn't recognize them.
It was not windy, but unusually cold for this time of air of Gotham was cold, but ignored by the two men conversing frantically several feet away from him. He strained to pick up what the two men were saying. They both sounded vaguely familiar, he couldn't quite grasp how though. One voice was unnaturally gruff, the other sounded more normal.
He felt himself slipping away just as he felt his face being handled by a gloved hand. The hard leather, or whatever the material was, was cold to the touch. He kept his left eye alert, stemming from a mix of curiosity and the fact that he couldn't move anything else at the moment. He strained harder to pick up what the two men were saying.
"You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
The gruff voice said. A figure in black and what looked like a cape was the voice's owner. The other figure had classes and a brown overcoat, he noted.
These words sounded familiar too. This was killing him, he knew that he heard them somewhere. All of this was processing through his mind much quicker than he could handle, and felt himself blacking out.
These words were the last things Harvey Dent heard before slipping into unconsciousness, the last thoughts about needing to get to someplace warm. This one was too cold and exposed.
He woke up having no sense of time, but feeling considerably warmer. This place was brighter too. It seemed like he was in a bed. There were heart rate monitors and monitors he figured were measuring his vitals. He was wearing the white hospital attire, but had an orange jumpsuit on underneath.
Ah, Hospital, he mused. He then noticed the jumpsuit, which only confused him.
The room had a sterile atmosphere to it. The light reflecting off the floors made for a sort of greenish tint. But that was only if he looked at it at a certain angle. Other than that, it was very uninviting. The Rest of the room also felt lifeless, cold. He also noticed that his left hand was handcuffed to the bed. His right had some sort of tube going into it.
The bed felt hard for some inexplicable reason there were bars on the window behind his bed. He was strianig to look around, but felt utterly exhausted. Possibly because he had been drugged, he didn't know.
There was a small nightstand next to his bed. Along with a chair next to the nightstand. he door also seemed like it was heavy duty, seemed like it was trying to keep something out. Or in. It looked like there was a policeman or somebody armed with an automatic weapon just outside the door. He couldn't se it clearly because it looked like it was mesh window on the door, and the guy's back was to him.
What kind of hospital is this? he though, confused. Am I a prisoner here? If so, what did I do? Why can't I remember? He began to look around to further evaluate his surroundings.
The room was relatively empty aside the aforementioned furniture. The walls looked like they were heavily insulated with some sort of padding. There was no clock or TV on the white walls, they were bare. At least the padding kept the room warm.
Quickly tiring of his surroundings, he tried to remember how he got there. He could remember the cold, but nothing else. He remembered the voices and how they sounded familiar. He remembered what the gruff one said about dying a hero.
He looked one last time at the night stand. There was nothing on it, save for one object. A coin.
He reached out for the coin with his free hand, barely able to graps it because of the restraints. Had the nightstand been an inch farther away, it would have been a lost cause. he finnaly got a grasp on the coin. It didn't look like it was worth anything. It felt cold and smooth on one side, yet rough on the other. He flipped it onto the other side. It was horribly scarred. It was heads on both sides as well. He stared at it. It felt familiar. He recalled this coin of having some significance to him, he just didn't know what.
He then recalled holding it and giving it to a dark haired woman. By her expression he could tell she was worried. He didn't know who it was, it was just a picture in his mind. After giving it to the woman a door was shut on him. More memories came back, but none this strong. It was all very hazy. He figured he must be drugged somehow. Which just brought up more questions.
Where was he? Why was he here? What happened to his face? Why couldn't he remember a goddamn thing? Why was he strapped down, aside from his right arm?
This was just making him aggravated. A part of him wanted to violently break out of the straps and start breaking things, maybe even kill the first person in sight. He didn't even know where the thought came from. At least it felt warm here. Not safe, but warm. Aside from those damn handcuffs, they were freezing. And yet, they were his only source of physical discomfort. The rest felt numb, probably due, once again, to drugs.
All sense of time was lost to him. He did not know how long he had been sitting there like this. He woke confused, now he was bored. This boredom slowlwy changed to anger for his unusual situation. He knew he probably shouldn't panic or do anything rash, but the sensible side of his mind was slowly corrupting itself out of sheer boredom and desparation. Why he was desparate, he once again did not know. Probably boredom or side effects from the drugs. He began to sweat out of anxiety. Something then struck him.
Name, name What's my name? He began to think frantically. He didn't even remember his, wait-it was starting to come back. Dent. His name was Harvey Dent. He didn't know how it came back to him, but the name just felt right. He closed his good eye and tried lowering what was left of his other eye lid. He continued to ponder his predicamen and his the memories that were swirling in his head, but no other answers came up, frustrating him even more.
Desparation slowly led him to dispair and fear of his situation. It was unnaturally quiet in this room. His hopes for any answers, just something, god damn it! were slowly dying. The sweat continued dripping down his face and he found himself stretching his arm as far as it could go in the restraint to wipe it off. He knew that the best thing to do in this situation was simply to stay calm. He started by taking several deep breaths and started o close his eyes.
He saw the brown haired woman again. He still didn't know who she was, but he felt safe around her, even if it was just a memory or a dream. This time she wassitting around a table with him, at a high end restaruant, by the looks of it. She obviously enjoyed his company. He started to drift off into sleep .
His introspection was cut short by a loud buzzing noise and the front door opening. A young woman with dark hair and blond streaks walked in. He could tell she was slightly uncomfortable, but was doing her best to look professional. Her hair was in a tight bun, and she had on a white coat. Probably a newer doctor. Maybe she could answer some of his questions. She didn't seem to fit in with the cold atmosphere. He guessed that she must have a warm, if not bubbly personality. Something about her blue eyes, and somewhat confident demeanor led him to make the guess.
She must be new here. wherever here is...he figured, shifting his head to get a better look.
The young woman sat down on the chair, holding a clipboard with all kinds of medical information and as well as notes, he supposed. She crossed her legs and began taking more notes. After about a minute she acknowledged him.
"Oh, I didn't notice that you were awake. I'm sorry." She said quickly, doing her best to avoid looking embarassed and maintain an air of proffesionalism.
He glanced at her trying to decide which of the myriad of questions he had to ask first.
"Where am I?" He said, straining himself to sound civilized.
She flashed him a smile and then spoke in a very soft voice, so as not to upset him.
"You're at Arkham Asylum. I have been assigned to treat you Mr. Dent. I am Doctor Harleen Quinzel."